Batman: Steam-Wise
by EthanFlux
Summary: When the Earth must rebuild from the ashes of a corrupt society, only one can stand up to the horrors that would see it come crashing down once more. The story of Batman in a world powered by steam, run by machines and threatened by evil and more...


Batman: Steam-Wise

Chapter One: 'In The Year Of Our Mother'

**Good day to you, reader. I suppose you're here to read a story. Well, this is essentially the prologue, which is all I shall be doing for a while. If you are fortunate, I will have done another chapter or two by the time you read this, but not likely.**

**This is a Steampunk Batman Universe which I have created. The science behind it is all theoretical (at least, I try to explain it as best I can without getting too technical). Picture the technology as you would computers from the 60's compared to computers today. Now think of it as the Steampunk we know and love as a 60's computer, this story contains the modern version. I hope I've made that clear.**

**Anyway, you've got a lot of exposition to go through. Tried to make it as interesting as possible. So, please enjoy what I have to offer, and hope you like the world I have tried to establish. Have fun!**

* * *

In the year of our Mother, 1427, the world was in a state of turmoil. For over forty years the nations of the Earth had been in conflict; a global war of unpredictable scale. The Steam Age was meant to shine a beacon of light to guide us into the future. Leaders grew suspicious, government became corrupt and the people's fear was used against them. What should have been a period of rejoicing and enlightenment transformed into a nightmare. Small conflicts broke out across borders; the prejudices of society could no longer be contained by a Cold War. It would be written that the greatest failure of the war was the nation's inability to overcome tedious differences, but the same is said for every conflict. In any case, the fact that the public entered the fray before the military could was ultimately regrettable. Perhaps then it would have sparked less of a vengeful retaliation. Doubtless, either way, the harshness with which the media portrayed this in the light would have brought about conventional war. In their bid to improve their own self-image, news itself became warped and exaggerated to the point of great debate as to when the battle actually began. In some cases, the accounts are varied by years. Such is the means of the human race to reach their ends. Unfortunately, most of them would.

Much like the unknown date, it is also debated as to which country struck out first. Some claim the British Empire's already vast strength made them confident enough to begin invasion. Others say it was Russia using their numbers to secure a safe-zone around their beloved fatherland. A choice few point their fingers in the direction of America, but for no apparent reason other than to disclaim their own countries. All that is known is several armed conflicts began within days of each other across the globe, resulting in initial casualty counts reaching thousands, not counting deaths. Borders were torn down and, quite literally, the map was forever changed; colours disappearing, names changed and some crossed out entirely. What makes modern historians, and citizens, sick to the stomach is that, at the beginning of this ungrateful war, everyone looked upon it with a smile. It would be many years of fighting before the realisation set in, much too late for all. Years went by and the only great abundance generated by it was the body count. Cremations soon became mandatory; only high ranking figures were allowed the privilege of a proper burial. Dysentery and famine become periodic; most victories were won through this method.

It was about seven years after the war began that the people started to understand. Small groups petitioned their governments to cease all hostile actions and end the violence and bloodshed, but this was never to happen. Money has a persuasive tongue. It whispers to the hearts and minds of humanity and sways the world. Unbelievable as it sounds, war made people rich. The rich bought power so that, despite their vast wealth, they could become even richer. Arms manufacturers soon dominated the government and were running their own personal monopoly on the world, with the same care-free nature as if they were actually playing the game itself. With every roll of the dice, for every corpse on the battlefield, wallets grew thicker and ignorance was no longer a bad word. The world really did turn faster than ever before. Every day would be different as night descended; nothing would be familiar. If it wasn't the people in charge, it was the ruins of the city, the number of meals a day or possessions you had. With these factors in mind, it is unbelievable to say the least that humanity is still alive today, but considering what was to come, was it for the best?

* * *

It is often remarked that the biggest casualty of the war was technology. Another phrase used is 'unfortunate casualty' which perfectly sums up the facts. Steam technology was created to enhance the human lifestyle and bring about the Golden Age of the world. There is a report stating that the creator of the technology, whose name has been lost either through misplacement or purposeful destruction, experienced a feeling of world-changing capability in the form of a shiver after completing his first steam design. He knew there and then that his designs would do great things but he hoped, as quoted; _'It is for the better.'_ There are no records of his life that exist of him during war or post-war. This shining light that his creation was supposed to bring dwindled into non-existence when it was used to create armaments and devices of destruction. Greedily squandered, Steam was used and feared by all. As a result, the only developments made to integrate it into society was in the form of weaponry. 'Unfortunate casualty' fits the phrase better. Not only was Steam a casualty, but it was reborn in exactly the way it wasn't meant to be. And it was only about to get worse.

The money moguls soon became aware that they were locked in a fight that they themselves might not survive. A solution had to be invented and quickly. What could dull down a war so that they could scrape every last cent from it they could before it ended? From what records show, every remaining nation had formulated the exact same ultimatum within a month of each other. Slowly, the weapons manufacturers changed their rosters to include the creation of delivery devices. Slightly after the second decade ended, chemical weapons had begun to appear on the battlefield, wiping out scores of troops on all fronts. Even the public believed it would all be over soon, that was until the toxins were used on the major population centres of the world. A fog would drift in, signalling the end was near. Panic became routine and long after countermeasures were set in place, the gasses were still being used. Like a disease coursing its way through the veins and pathways of the human body, the world succumbed to the ravages of man-made destruction. On our darkest day, the miasma grew so thick that it blotted out the sun, truly extinguishing the light of hope that we once dared to dream. Still, the heartless corporations allowing the world to crumble under their feet watched with a selective sight, only for spying profit through the smog.

And so, Chemical Warfare began.

By now, home was the place you slept in for the night before you trekked on across whatever countryside you found yourself in. It is safe to assume that there was no place on Earth untouched by the atrocities of this war. People took shelter wherever there wasn't a battle going on, eating rations once or twice a day if you were lucky. Wearing a gasmask outside at all times was a standard, some even slept with them on. The few pregnant women who lived long enough to give birth couldn't take their newborn outside without one. The elderly survivors remarked afterwards that it was probably the saddest sight of the time; _'a small baby, barely a few weeks old, needing protection from the world it was born into.'_ Study into prolonged exposure to the gas showed that, in vast repeated amounts, it would become acidic and boil through the skin. If a person walked through an area where the gaseous compound had had time to disperse, then it wouldn't affect open skin. Eventually, as land became less valuable to control and the bombings ceased, the fog would clear and the terrain became liveable without the need of a filter. Tiny communities sprung up across the globe; refugees and homeless becoming independent, all seeking to put an end to this vast corruption plaguing their way of life.

* * *

At this time, the war was three decades long. A generation of children grew up without seeing the world how it was born instead of how it was made. The people, even the soldiers, had had enough. All this war had done was make the rich even richer at the cost of human life. Slowly but surely, the final standing nations on the face of the Earth refused to fight. The first action taken against war was the disarmament of the chemical weapons, followed by their immediate destruction. The weapons manufacturers were brought down from their reign of power and made to face justice for the crimes they had committed against humanity. The final countries who could not see pas their own gain were crippled enough to be controlled and the clean-up began. Soon, the air was clear but the sky would be forever overhung with the tinted yellow clouds of toxic fumes. Reservoirs of water began running cleanly and plots of land not too damaged by years of exposure began growing crops again. The people moved back into the cities where they might find a way to jolt the rebuilding process to the next level. Needless to say, there was much to be done.

The initial end of the war is varied in many respects. Officially, it ended much earlier than the fighting did. At its conclusion, humankind was united more strongly than ever before. Some would argue that, if there ever was a victory to be had out of the carnage, this was it.

Steam technology, for the first time since its inception, was finally used for the betterment of mankind. With it, the reconstruction of the globe would have taken decades longer. Even so, Earth was now vastly undermanned to complete such a task as restoring the Earth while maintaining it as well. So many had died that the planet quite literally felt empty. Little under a billion people were still alive and well enough to work. It was impossible for them to complete both duties while scattered in small groups across the world. It was then that one man discovered the answer in Steam technology. An inventor, Thomas Wayne, whose grandfather once worked with the inventor of the Steam machinery, drew up plans to create an artificial worker who would help to rebuild the cities en mass. The prototype was built and the designs shipped to other nations. Hundreds of android workers restored townships and capitals everywhere, all connected to a central steam hub which would power them continuously, night and day. These mechanical marvels repaired and built while the humans maintained developed ways to further advance themselves all to the aid of Steam.

Thomas Wayne returned to his home city of Gotham where he set up his headquarters, WayneSpire. He was hailed a hero when his latest creation generated electrical energy to bring light to his home and everyone else's, enough to simulate night and day. His entire business was built to create advances in Steam technology to make life better for everyone, exactly as it was intended to. With his partners; lifetime friend and mentor, Alfred Pennyworth and fellow inventor and engineer, Lucius Fox, Wayne secured his empire as the first conglomerate to be strongly and successfully integrated into society after the war. In only two years, he had achieved so much, but he was soon struck with a personal tragedy. Thomas' wife, Martha Wayne, discovered she could not bear children. The physician could not explain the cause of the issue, but that the womb was incapable of supporting a foetus. Both had hoped for a baby to bring into the new world, but such news left them distraught and Wayne dropped from the limelight for a short time. After several months, Wayne resurfaced, more composed but also broody. He confided in Alfred and Fox about the matter and the three hatched a plan that would affect the future like no other.

* * *

Steam technology had been shot to a revolutionary level, with components several dozen times smaller than their predecessors. Wayne, Pennyworth and Fox pushed the boundaries in mechanical engineering and, in the end, had created a machine replica of a newborn child. It was far from completed however, but a good launching pad to further develop the artificial neonate. The first step was to create an apparatus capable of separating the experiment from a steam generator while keeping it remotely powered. After a few weeks of careful research and engineering, they had created the Personal Apparatus for Generating Energy. It consisted of two containers to be built into the machine skeleton, both fitted with a burner. With water in one container, it is boiled creating steam which is funnelled throughout the machine's body powering its systems. The steam is pushed through the channels using valves at certain points which activate when trapped steam builds up enough pressure. The steam then makes its way into the second container where it condenses back into water and the process is reversed. WayneSpire was not greedy in its latest breakthrough, and soon, every machine was fitted with a PAGE so it too could feel freedom away from the confines of the main generator. But this was still not enough.

As Thomas Wayne watched his faux infant walk about with its new-found freedom, he realised that the child had no individuality. In the eyes of the world, it would just be another...it. Wayne set the task upon himself and his partners to create another invention which would allow the machine to create a personality for itself and to expand upon its intelligence, growing intellectually as a human would. The second step was to discover how to integrate such an improbable device into the designs already laid out before them. After almost a year of failed experiments, their final prototype proved to be a success. Using minute discs, information could be burned into its surfaces and read using tiny needles. With several hundred of these small records, a machine would be able to see and interpret an image while experiencing an imitation of an emotional response. In the event it experienced something new, this information would be added to its knowledge banks, all of which powered by the steam continuously running through its system. This was called the AI; Artificial Intelligence. As an addition to this upgrade, which WayneSpire generously added to the design of the machine populace, a voice box was also included. This was made from a cylinder player with many needles running across its surface. Much like the discs, the needles would detect the information indented in its face and interpret it, only this time as sounds. The sounds would be transformed into words with every needle scratching the surface at certain times. It also had the capability of changing tone, as the cylinder would manipulate its pathways to make the voice higher or lower. Assigned the term STIM; Sound and Tone Imitation Modulator. But this was still not enough.

Thomas wanted to raise his boy like any other. He would upgrade his body as if to emulate the process of aging. Wayne wanted to keep the truth away from his son that he was not a real boy. One night, the machine designated as Bruce, discovered the truth in a traumatic event which shocked him for life. During one of his upgrading sessions, a bat flew into the laboratory and became entangled inside Master Wayne's instruments, causing massive internal damage. As the repairs commenced, Bruce deduced his true origins which his parents had tried so hard to keep from him. The machinery within was no longer an imitation of the human condition; it was now a living creature. The machines now had intuition, imagination and autonomy. Bruce Wayne was now living in a brand new world which, unfortunately, many still took for granted. It had been just under eight years since Bruce's construction and several more since the machines had first been built to help pull the Earth back from the brink. Now, the rebuilding was over, the machines became obsolete and were being prepared for the incinerators. Some people argued that the machines were alive; now that they had a consciousness, they were essentially human. Others declared that they were mimicking a human's way of thinking and that was all. A rift was created between the two species now occupying the Earth, commonly erupting in minor riots and everyday crime. Caught in the middle was young Master Wayne. Thomas saw his son and realised that, even though he was human to his mother and father, Bruce would never be accepted into society because of what he is made of instead of who he is.

Once more, he drew upon the genius of his friends to invent a material that could mimic human skin. Using a thin form of rubber, they were able to tailor a model of flesh. For the first time, Thomas looked upon his son and believed that one day, his boy would be able to walk through the city streets without discrimination. Likewise with their other inventions, WayneSpire's Skin Imitation technology was available to every machine. Some were grateful for the freedom it offered while the rest declined, proud of their artificial creations. Androids wearing the false skin found more abuse, taunted with the nickname 'Fleshies'. Despite Bruce's newfound humanity, Thomas kept him hidden as he refined the skin design, wanting to perfect it into the best imitation possible. With every new design, he would allow its use in the general public. After two years, he created a thicker rubber skin with a smaller layer filled with red liquid to imitate blood. Bruce's steam system heated up the skin, giving off the impression of warm flesh underneath, and the moisture generated mimicked sweat. Alfred had even stitched individual hairs into the skin for his head. This final creation, however, was not released to the machines. He kept it as a present all for his own son. Finally, it was enough.

* * *

It was a cool Thursday night. The sky was dark, as it had been forever, except tonight was quite special. Lightning flashes penetrated the cloudy underbelly, creating a yellow-green effect before the thunder crackled through the silence. From high above in WayneSpire, Gotham City seemed so completely peaceful. The municipal illuminations sparkled brightly in that familiar pattern, powered down for dusk-time. Everything was still under the traumatic sky, but that's how it appeared every time. Bruce had no idea what to expect down in the streets below. He tried to peer over the railing of the balcony, the wind whipping his hair, but all he could see beyond the darkness were small dark shapes moving about. It didn't matter that he couldn't make anything out from here. Tonight was a time for new things being found; that he would take his first steps among the people. "Master Bruce, get down from there!" snapped Alfred lightly, slightly startling the small child. If it weren't for his quick attainment of balance, Bruce would be on the pavement now. Alfred sighed in both relief and annoyance as he watched Bruce move himself away from the balcony, back into his home; the Belfry. It looked like a gilded cage, but to Bruce, felt nothing of the sort. Gilded; yes. Cage; far from it. This was his life, and what little he'd had didn't include memories he'd want to forget. His father constructed him in this very room, maintained him, helped him to grow and loved him like a father should along with his mother. Thomas and Martha were the best parents young Bruce could ever have wished for. He understood that his isolation was for the best and held no ill will towards them because of it. Whenever they weren't there, Alfred took care of Bruce. He and Alfred had become close friends over the years and Alfred had taught him much from his own life. Recently, however, Lucius had not been able to see Bruce at all; busy with company duties. It was a little saddening, but that issue might not be a problem for long. Alfred knelt down in front of young Bruce, holding out a loose black bowtie. "I believe this will go well with it, sir." He held the tie against the sleeve of Bruce's suit jacket which he was wearing. "Yes, quite appropriate." He draped it over Bruce's shoulders and stood back as he watched the young boy attempt to tackle tying it. After a few goes, it became quite obvious that this was not going to be easy. "Need some assistance?" grinned Alfred brazenly.

"Yes, please." Sighed Bruce heavily, letting his arms drop to his side so that Alfred could begin tying.

"It's good to see that a capacity for cynicism has been installed." Within a few seconds, the tie was completed. "Perfect." Added Alfred, standing back. "You look completely human."

"I don't know, Alfred." Scrutinized Bruce, looking over his reflection in a mirror. "Do we usually have to wear dress suits all the time?"

"Only for special occasions, which this very much is." Alfred stood behind Bruce, straightening his collar and tie and dusting off the suit.

"To a movie?" asked Bruce cynically.

"Not just any movie; a _**premiere**_!" declared Alfred triumphantly, rolling his r's. "The Cowl of Zorro! Only one of a dozen talking pictures to have been made and your family and you have the privilege of viewing it in style!" He became physical in his motions, as if the room were a stage. "Imagine, watching a hero sword-fight with villains and rescuing damsels on a screen so wide, you'll have trouble keeping track of it all! You'll be amazed, your parents will be star struck and I..." Alfred tailed off, becoming his regular deadpanned self. "I'll be stuck here, cleaning." Bruce sniggered as Alfred began clearing a work table.

"Hey, at least you're not the butler around here." Bruce said.

"Not officially." Huffed Alfred just as the door opened. In walked Bruce's mother, wearing a lovely red dress with a red veil draped over her shoulders. She strode up to Bruce in her matching slippers and gave him a once-over before giving him a nice big hug.

"You look very handsome, honey." She complimented happily before turning to Alfred. "Thank you for helping him."

"The pleasure is all mine." Accepted Alfred.

"Ooh, but..." Martha bit her lip as she took note of Bruce's hair. She then began, much to Bruce's dismay, to tidy it up.

"Mum." Complained Bruce through gritted teeth. "Mum, don't..." he wasn't able to get much in the way of protestation out as she continued to do her work.

"Darling, leave the boy alone." Came the voice of Bruce's father as he entered the room, fitting the last of his cufflinks onto his sleeve. "How do I look?" He enquired to Alfred.

"Like _**you're**_ going out somewhere nice." Answered his friend. Thomas gave him a pat on the shoulder, not really taking notice. He had other concerns on his mind. As he knelt next to Bruce, moving Martha's hands away from his hair, he fixed his son with a serious stare.

"Okay, I know you're excited about going to the city, but we have to make sure we don't do anything to draw attention to ourselves more than we need to." He said immediately.

"I know." Assured Bruce, but Thomas wasn't listening.

"Don't talk to anyone you don't know and keep close to us. We can't have you getting lost." Continued Thomas.

"I kno-"

"If at any time you're feeling scared or overwhelmed, we can come right back here."

"I-"

"Just try not to lose yourself in all the excitement."

"Dad!" Bruce held his father's face gently, reassuringly as he tried to explain; "I think you're a little more excited than I am." Thomas sighed. "But don't worry, I know you're nervous, and I understand." Thomas smiled at his son, placing his hand on his shoulder.

"Happy Birthday, Bruce." He whispered, kissing Bruce on the forehead.

"I can't believe you're already ten years old." Said Martha excitedly, pinching Bruce's cheek. Thomas' eyes widened as he looked at his fob watch.

"Oh! I can't believe how late we're gonna be if we don't leave now. Come on." He rounded them both up and led them towards the door.

"See you later, Alfred!" called Bruce.

"Not too late, I hope, Master Bruce." Returned Alfred, waving goodbye.

"We'll be back soon." Said Thomas as he closed the door, leaving Alfred all alone in the Belfry. He didn't know why, but he was feeling quite sad at their departure.

* * *

It was all moving by before his eyes; the city streets, the people and machines. Looking out through the carriage window, he saw the marvels of the world around him, all highlighted in coloured neon lights. While not picturesque, the scenes all around him emphasised the life he wanted to be a part of. His only wish now was that he was walking among them. They might as well have; the carriage ride was so brief that it was barely worth taking at all. When they arrived at the Monarch Theatre, they were immediately blitzed by photographers, snapping pictures of famous actors, directors, writers and public figures. The flashes were so blinding that it took time for Bruce's eyes to adjust after each one. An arm pulled him close, holding him tightly at the man's side. "Stick close to me." Muttered Thomas, helping his son down the maroon walkway leading into the theatre. To the media, this was a startling event; the reclusive Wayne family and their son out in public together for the first time. There had been whispers for years that the Waynes had a child and that they were hiding him away for personal reasons. The main gossip was that he was born with a rare disease and had been receiving the best medical care available. Whatever problem his parents had with Bruce being in the spotlight had apparently melted away. They entered the foyer, decked out in lovely velvet drapes and golden ornaments. Between the split staircase stood a fountain, topped with a bronze statue of a goddess. She held aloft in her hands a dove in her right and scales in the other. The only thing she wore was a smile which was enough to warm the hearts of anyone who looked upon her. Once inside, Thomas and Martha began mingling with the guests, introducing a few to Bruce who kept very much to himself. It was best he didn't become too involved. Many of these people were high society; the Mayor, several governors and even Commissioner Loeb. If they asked him anything, he would nervously shrink behind Thomas, but this was just for show. It was a surprisingly long ten minutes as they walked from group to group, but when over, they were all called in to take their seats. The theatre was large, tiered and obviously converted from an original theatre; the stage was still present. Thomas, Martha and Bruce found their seats; in the centre of the twelfth row back. It was a perfect view with the projector resting on a dais a few rows back. Before the stage sat the orchestra in their box with the conductor standing over them, making sure they all knew what they were doing. By them sat a gramophone with what was obviously the dialogue for the feature presentation. Bruce was so excited to see how it would all turn out. "Hey, Bruce." Thomas leaned in close to his son. "That camera back there, you wanna know how it works? It-"

"It runs the film in front of light to project the image onto the screen at a rate of twenty-four frames per second, which is exactly how quickly the human eye can register sight." Compiled Bruce. "Anything you'd like to add?" Thomas shook his head, impressed.

"No." he answered in a slightly higher tone. Suddenly, the house lights came down, plunging the theatre into darkness. The projector flickered into life, the blinding beam shining over the audience's heads and onto the red curtains. They were tardily pulled open to allow the projection to reach the white screen. The numbers counted down, watched eagerly by the woman standing by the gramophone, ready to drop the needle. As soon as the image blinked into blackness, she began the recording and disembarked. The titles faded up in a beautifully curved lettering; _'The Cowl of Zorro!'_ with an exclamation to enhance the drama. As the opening credits rolled over a cloudy sky indicating trouble ahead, the orchestra strung beautifully struck chords and bellowed amazing notes from its various instruments. Throughout the whole film, the audience gasped at the shocks and incredible stunts, smiled at the adorable romance and cheered as the protagonist braced himself against the forces of evil. Bruce became lost in the plot and all its twists and turns. How Zorro's brother betrayed the family and killed him, orphaning Zorro's one and only heir. The boy's destitute years that managed to train him into a new man, while taking the fancy of one of his uncle's mistresses. How the new Zorro ruined his uncle's empire in the name of his father. And now, the climax; Zorro confronts his uncle, only to discover his uncle is in fact his true biological father. Confronted with these disturbing facts, Zorro's resolve is shattered and he launches into an all-out sword battle heated with revenge and anger which saw the evil dictator brought down by his own machines whom he had created to be slaves. Bruce grinned, satisfied with this end but it was apparently not to be so. Just as soon as it appeared to be over, Zorro committed one last act in the name of his heroic father; destruction of his uncle's entire empire without mercy. Zorro leapt into the crowd of machines, brandishing his sword and cut down one after the other. It was a disturbing sight for Bruce but only became worse when the hero of the film set fire and shot after shot of burning android filled the screen. He couldn't tell what scared him more; the ghastly images of his own kind being destroyed or the people around him cheering as they crumpled into charred heaps on the ground. Thomas saw that Bruce was agitated, shaking and clearly distressed. He held his son's hand. "Bruce? Are you okay?" Martha glanced over and noticed her boy's frightened face.

"Honey?" she asked but Bruce couldn't answer. He couldn't tear his eyes from the carnage. Martha looked up to Thomas. "Let's go." She insisted and Thomas had to agree. With some difficulty, they urged Bruce up out of his seat and into the foyer, the machine destruction scene still reeling for all to see. Thomas diverted them to the side door, the press still present in front of the theatre. As soon as they were outside, he pulled Bruce aside and knelt down to eye level, holding Bruce's shoulders steady.

"Bruce, can you talk to me?" Thomas cradled his son's face in his hands, Bruce's eyes darting around in their sockets. He just couldn't fathom the images he had witnessed. Thomas held him tightly in his arms; he knew there was no way to comfort Bruce the same way a normal child. "Don't be frightened. Please, we're-those people don't represent all of humanity. Not all of us hate machines."

"Why?" cried Bruce, mimicking the expression without tears. "What did we do to deserve hate?"

"That is a question more people should ask themselves." Answered Thomas. He released his boy, returning to his eyes. "Man is afraid that the machines are superior and that they will dominate us, take what we've died for. Many people can't see the benefit of having you and that makes them blind. There need to be more people to help them see." Bruce nodded, his sobs dying down. "Feeling better?"

"Mmm hmm."

"Good. I'm gonna hail a carriage, wait here until it arrives." Thomas stood, but Bruce grabbed his sleeve.

"No, wait. I wanna walk back." He said.

"Bruce..."

"It's not that far away, and I want to see the city." Pleaded Bruce. Thomas looked over the buildings down the alley. Towering above them was WayneSpire silhouetted against the darkened sky. "Please dad. It's all I want."

"Come on, Tom. Let's walk home." Agreed Martha, giving her husband a warm smile. Thomas considered for a moment, looking from his family to the street and back, reckoning the pros and cons. It seemed too much worry for such a simple decision to Bruce, but in the end, Thomas conceded.

"Okay then." He said, smiling. He slung his arm around Martha and held Bruce to his side as they walked further into the alley, after which would be a straight run to the tower. As they turned left, now behind the theatre itself, a figure stirred in the darkness. Thomas' grip on Bruce's shoulder tightened as the mass drew itself up from the shadows and waited aside for the three newcomers to walk closer. Suddenly, it swung out before them, brandishing a badly scuffed firearm.

"I-i-impArt Me YOur plUnd-d-deR, aFflUence and-d-d TreasUres...oR diE." The machine crackled with an inhuman voice, keeping the weapon trained on Martha. Bruce was frozen to the spot while Thomas, keeping amazingly calm, reached for his wallet in his coat pocket. Martha was shivering but still, watching the machine's unmoving eyes.

"Take it easy." Said Thomas, assuring the machine he wasn't planning anything. "This is all we have. You don't have to do anything. Just take it and go." He held out his wallet for the android to take, but just as its hand went for it, the wallet slipped from Thomas' grip and onto the ground. When the machine reacted to this, Thomas tried to knock its gun away but to no avail. It grabbed Martha by the neck, ready to kill. Thomas struggled with the android's weaponed arm, swinging it around in the air. Suddenly, it went off and for a split second, as the echoes died down, Thomas watched as his wife's body collapsed into a motionless heap. The android knocked him aside and spied Bruce, immobilised by shock, and aimed his gun at the boy. At the last moment, just as the shot rang out, Thomas stood between them and, as the realization washed over his face, fell beside Martha's corpse. Emptiness; the alley walls shrank into nothingness. All that remained were the two presences standing either side of a mound of flesh. But, as the android realised, not everything was as it seemed. It tilted its head as it computed the fact that its last bullet had not killed the young boy before him. The slug had passed through the man and hit the child's chest, straight through the heart. How was it possible that such a small being could survive such a fatal blow? Slowly, cautiously, the machine backed away, disappearing into the shadows. "Bruce..." whispered a soft voice. Bruce knelt down to his father, who had taken his deceased wife's arm and placed it over his chest. He looked into his son's eyes, his own already glazing over, with a sense of peacefulness. "Bruce...it's okay to be afraid. It's okay." With his free hand, Thomas reached over weakly and held Bruce's. "Just...You remember what I told you? How we're...afraid of machines because they are superior?" Bruce nodded, bringing his father's hand to his face. Of all the things going through his mind, his only wish was that he could cry. "Just remember...it's the same for them too." And as his hand fell, as his face sank and his skin paled, Bruce felt truly alone.

It was a cold Thursday night. The sky was black, as it had been forever, except tonight was quite haunting. Lightning flashes penetrated the cloudy underbelly, creating a yellow-green effect before the thunder crackled through the silence. From down below in the gloomy alley, the world seemed to be completely deserted. Everything was still under the traumatic sky, but that's how it appeared every time. Bruce had no idea what to expect down in the streets below. He tried to peer through the pelts of rain that began to fall from the heavens, the water wetting his hair, but all he could see beyond the showers was emptiness. It didn't matter anymore. Tonight was a time for good souls to vanish from this Earth, and as the burning rain seared through Bruce's skin, he stayed with his parents whom he had loved dearly.

* * *

Knock! Knock! Alfred strode across the polished wooden floor of the penthouse towards the door. He had been expecting company today, not the kind you would wish to have. He opened the door and was met with the face of a Lieutenant whom he had met before on one of the darkest nights of his life. "James, come inside. Make yourself comfortable." Alfred motioned into the living room.

"Thank you." Thanked Gordon, entering the room. Alfred closed the door and followed Jim to the sitting area.

"I didn't think you'd be here so early. Lucius!" Alfred called to the third man in the kitchen. Lucius was pouring some drinks out for himself and Alfred to share, but added another for the Lieutenant.

"Well, I didn't want to draw this out for much longer." Responded Gordon to Alfred's last statement. All three sat down around a glass table with a metal frame, each with drink in hand. There was a pause between them; this was the conversation they had been waiting for.

"So?" Fox started off. "What was the verdict?"

"Chill pled guilty without hesitation, which was fortunate considering the lack of evidence against him...or testimony." Gordon finished off. "It would have been comforting to have had him there just in case."

"Bruce has already been through enough." Alfred stated. "He doesn't need any more of this."

"Trust me, I understand." Said Gordon, putting his glass on the table. "And besides, Joseph Chill is no longer a problem for your son anymore."

"What do you mean?" asked Fox.

"What do you think I mean?" returned Gordon rhetorically. "He's being dismantled." Jim took a swig from his wine. Alfred was slightly confused.

"Well, don't sound so excited about it." He sarcastically mocked, even more surprised by Fox's sadness. "He got what he deserved; I think we can all agree on that."

"It's not _**that**_ we disagree with."

"Then what?"

"The circumstances." Said Lucius. He turned to both men, making sure he had their attention. "Look at the world we live in now, look at the circumstances that drove Chill to commit murder. He has no rights; he probably doesn't even have a chance in the real world and we expect the machines to work around it? How? They were designed to fix cities and rebuild towns, not change the structure of reality. So, they learn from the only example they have; us and our crime-filled lifestyle. I'm surprised nobody saw this coming. Of course it would be their only alternative with so little support from us; their creators. Creators!" Scoffed Lucius, linking his hands in front of his chin. "I doubt our Mother was so discriminant against us."

"We're not talking about machine rights," argued Alfred, "we are focusing on two people's deaths. Our friends."

"I know who they are, _**Al**_. I knew Wayne for almost as long as you did but don't think we're not all just a little responsible for what happened." Alfred was taken aback. How was he partially responsible? "We've all neglected the machines, driven them to take drastic measures in order to survive. It was only a matter of time before even those few who do actually believe in rights for them would be at risk. Let's face it; we created a race of desperate people trying to live in a desperate world."

"We may not have killed them," added Gordon, "but we created the circumstances that did." It was a solemn air inside the living room now. Almost a minute passed before Gordon finally moved or spoke, gulping down the remnants of his white wine.

"I should be getting back. Thanks for the drink." Gordon, tailed by Lucius, walked to the door and stepped outside. Jim hesitated and stuck his head back inside. "I've got a daughter myself. I don't want her growing up in a place like this. It's hard not to when it's everywhere. Tell your boy...Tell him not to be afraid to live like his parents did. Good day Mr. Fox, Mr. Pennyworth." And Lieutenant Gordon departed, closing the door behind him. Fox sighed heavily while Alfred focused on the stairway that led up to the Belfry where young Bruce resided.

"I'll tell him the news, then." He muttered, standing and making his way to the stairs.

"Alfred." Said Fox, wanting to help his friend understand. "Try to see it from our perspective. We created the monsters in our own image. Not to get philosophical, but if the creator is worse than the monster, then what must our creator be like?"

"Lucius, we disagree rarely, but I have seen things from your point of view...and moved past it." Responded Alfred reasonably. "I moved on because I personally refuse to linger on mistakes of the past instead of learning from them for the future." Without a word from Fox, Alfred ascended the stairs and out of sight. With every step, he tried to think of a new approach to explain it all to Bruce. It wasn't going to be easy, no matter which way it happened. By the time he reached the door, Alfred figured it would be best not to plan how to break the news. Inside sat Bruce, sitting on the balcony floor with his legs dangling through the rails. The city was in day-time with every light ablaze. It wasn't the same as having real sunlight, but it made Gotham look like the source of all light in the world, burning at its heart. When Bruce had returned home that horrific night, his rubber skin had almost completely melted away from the acid rain; his mechanical features showing through the blistering bubbles and corroded gashes. Ever since, he had hidden himself away in the Belfry and every time Lucius or Alfred came to see him, Bruce was always there at the balcony watching over the city that had taken everything from him. "Master Bruce?" Alfred began tentatively, feeling the air overhanging the child. "We've just had a visit from the officer who arrested Mr. Chill."

"I know." Said Bruce. "I heard you." Alfred sunk back down, a little relieved and saddened that the news was already broken.

"Then you know he is dead." Bruce nodded slowly. "He pled guilty, didn't say anything about you."

"I knew he wouldn't." Bruce whispered.

"How?" asked Alfred.

"It wasn't necessary. That's how machines think." Bruce answered bitterly. Alfred couldn't watch Bruce fall deeper into depression. He was now the guardian of his deceased friend's son, he would be damned if there was another tomb reserved for this Wayne. Alfred strode over to the balcony and sat down beside Bruce, allowing his own legs to dangle over the edge. He breathed in the day air, for what it was worth. Fresh air was hard to come by. "What do I do now, Alfred?" Bruce asked sadly. "Where do I go...from here?"

"Try asking yourself another question first; where do you _**not**_ want to go?" reversed Alfred. Bruce thought it over, his forehead resting on his folded arms.

"I don't want to be a bad person."

"Good. And?"

"And...I don't want anyone to feel my pain." Answered Bruce. "I also don't want to end up like..." He stopped, unsure if he could say the next two words.

"Go on." Encouraged Alfred.

"I don't want to end up like...my parents." Finished Bruce, instantly hating the way the words tasted in his mouth. "It's selfish."

"It's human." Corrected Alfred. "Just don't linger on it. At least you realised it was selfish; most people can't even get that far."

"But what more can I do? Is it just down to me to pick a side and fight for it?" Bruce held his head in his hands. "Neither one is better than the other."

"They're more alike than you realise." Said Alfred. "If you can't choose a side, then it is probably better not to pick either one. Make your own and with it, make the others better. Unite them under one symbol. It's what your mother and father would have wanted." Alfred placed his hand on Bruce's shoulder. "I'll always be here for you." With a couple of comforting pats, Alfred stood and made his way back to the exit. This was all he could give Bruce at the moment. The rest was up to him.

"Alfred." Called Bruce. Alfred turned to see Bruce looking at him. "I'm going to need your help."

* * *

The city seemed so much darker than it had been all those years ago. He hadn't seen it for what it was the first time; a rotting, decaying industrial monument to man's dreams when they're turned against them. There was no way he could put it off any longer; ready or not, Gotham was screaming for its saviour. It may not be the saviour it deserved, but many are given things they don't deserve. If you can't give this to those in need, then you're no better than the rest. Bruce's gift to the world was the amalgam of fifteen years of preparation. He had been kept hidden inside WayneSpire's walls to train for his future. Being a socialite, it was easy pretending that the rumours of his worldwide travels and schooling were true, keeping the public at bay. He had been, in fact, studying sciences of element and mind, practising multiple combat techniques of defence and assault in heavy, light and silent conflicts and sharpening his skills of deduction. With the help of Alfred, they had both been able to build Bruce into a creation fit for bettering the world. Fox's aid contributed to gadgetry and contraptions for fighting, detecting, transportation and theatricality. To help Bruce with his mission, he had to create an image for the criminals that frightened them from the streets, a mark they would remember. It had to be something that could easily be burnt into the minds of any poor soul unfortunate enough to meet with this winged avenger of the night. For this, Bruce searched his soul to remember what frightened him most. The first image that entered his mind was the day a bat had almost killed him. He had been so scared, afraid for his life. A feeling he hoped to pass along to the criminals of Gotham City. This image inspired his design and his arsenal. Everything had been organised and tonight was the time he had been living for. Right now, Alfred's contacts were spreading the word that Bruce Wayne was returning to Gotham; a face to fight against the industrialised crime now plaguing the city. Bruce shed his skin from his frame and relished the form of the bat. He surveyed his city; the innocents, the criminals and everyone in between. "We're prepared." Said Alfred from by the door. "I told you I'd always be here for you." Bruce smiled, ejecting the pointed ears atop his head to complete his cowl. Alfred looked him over with an expression of apprehension, but kept it to himself. Instead, he walked a little closer behind Bruce and peered out at the city.

"Tell Fox that modifications may need to be made if things don't work." Bruce reminded, checking his equipment.

"I will." Agreed Alfred. Lightning rolled through the clouds once more and the lightning crackled loudly. "How's it looking out there?" asked Alfred.

"It's set to be a very dark night." Answered Bruce. Without another word, he leapt from the balcony, diving towards the ground. As he plummeted, he held out his long black cloak and shot upwards, now gliding over the city. The people on the ground looked up and stared at the figure overhead. Fear gripped their hearts at the mere sight of this hideous apparition, this nocturnal scourge of the night.

This...Batman.

* * *

**Well, thank you for reading. I appreciate it very much and hope you enjoyed it. I'd really like some feedback before I write anymore. The next time I take a peek at this story, I might even rewrite this first chapter. I don't know, so please tell me what you thought no matter how long or short/good or bad.**

**If I do make more (and I do have plans for where this is going) the characters and their backstories will not be entirely the same. There will be similarities but some relationships will differ while others may not be like their original. Again, all in the future.**

**Once more, thank you for reading. Now, on to a novel I have been neglecting to write :P**

**Take care!**


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